Oak Seer: A Supernatural Mystery

Map

1

January 1994

Friday 9.55 p.m.

THE MOMENT THAT Jack Briscoe became impotent was also the very moment that images began to haunt him. His life would never be the same again. 

It began with a casual encounter (not in itself unusual for Briscoe): a woman pupil from his Monday evening's woodworking class. Not his usual choice, but this one had been giving him signs since the beginning of term: watching him (rather too closely), asking a lot of irrelevant questions, constantly needing hands-on assistance (hands-on being the operative term). She’d pointedly told him that she was living alone and needed to learn some practical skills. In his not inconsiderable experience, she promised to be bossy and controlling, and when she’d had her fill of him he would be summarily dumped.  Maybe that was just his bad luck.

So far he had chosen not to respond to any of the signs, preferring the challenge of one of the smarter, quieter women hidden away at the back of the room—the ones with whom he might have a discussion, be able to reason with, rather than those who wanted to be talked to, or those who only wanted to talk themselves. Of all the women he'd known (or been with), only two were memorable, and, somewhere deep down, he realised that perhaps this was for the wrong reasons.

The evening-class woman tried harder, dispensing with the subtleties; some dozy men were like that, when they couldn't believe what was on offer, or they were married. It was obvious she was lonely. But so was Briscoe; he just didn't realise it, but his way of dealing with it was like putting a sticking plaster on a crocodile bite.

One night he gave in. He always did. She bundled him into her tiny car. He didn't see the street lights saturated in the wet tarmac; only his eager anticipation. Then there was the sticking front door. The smell of damp wallpaper. Yellowed decorations. A reeking tray of cat litter. The loose stairs carpet. The bedroom door with a kicked-in panel. The bed's imposing carved headboard—he couldn't fail to notice such workmanship, even in a sexual frenzy. It had been over a week since the last woman, unusual for him. It was only lust. Shuffling, forced, unfamiliar embraces, her hair in his mouth, clashing of limbs. His hand brushed across her bare buttocks. Cold air on his naked back. At least the sheets felt clean enough. Warm hands took hold of him, guided him … He reached out to steady himself.

That was when he began to fall, and knew instantly that he'd left his body. His stomach would have churned if he'd still been connected with it. This must be what it was like to die—he was dying!

This is it, I'm going, I'm going…

But how do you feel sensations when you've no body to feel them with? There was no time to think. In the next instant he seemed to slow down, then stopped. Lights came on. 

Trapped, he couldn't see himself, desperate to breathe quickly, but there was no outlet, nothing he could do to vent his anguish, his terror, his feeling of being totally cast adrift from life. He needed to panic, to physically express how he felt, to scream! But he could make no sound. He told himself to calm down, calm down!, try to make some sense of what was happening, take in as much information as he could, and then work out what to do next. Good advice. That's what he'd been doing for years, whenever a customer dumped the shattered remains of period antique furniture with him: eaten by the dog, slammed by the husband, dropped by the removal men. His heart rate would quicken, he would fear not being able to fix whatever it was, that was the worst part: the unknown, not knowing if he would be able to put it back together. Sometimes it was unrecognizable, fit only for the bonfire, and sensing panic, like now, he would fill his lungs, stand back and take in all the information. He'd never been beaten, he'd always worked out how to rebuild, reassemble, restore, work magic. And right now he must do the same. There was always a way out, whatever the problem. Perhaps. He hoped. But he so desperately wanted that deep breath, so vital to the functioning of his mind. He forced calm. It wasn't easy.

So where was he? This was the same room—or was it? The door was different, no longer panelled, and was now flushed with a single sheet of hardboard and painted bright blue, typical 1960s' vandalism. And the wallpaper: hideously-patterned with a multi-coloured mix of geometric shapes and swirling flowers. A reading lamp on a table: converted from a fancy bottle of plonk, the sort with a basket wrapped around the bottom. And the window looked about right, maybe, it was in the right place, roughly, so far as he could remember, but he couldn't be certain, couldn't move, needed to get his bearings, see more of where he was. And his next thought: when he was. He was no longer in his own now; of that there was no doubt.

But what about the bed—ah, the bed was immediately in front of him, so he couldn't check to see if was the same headboard, with the carved fruits around the edges, a relic from the 1930s. Not that it mattered. Not now. Perhaps nothing did. 

Briscoe knew—just knew—that he'd died, passed on, crossed over, or whatever happens when you've dropped off your twig. It could only have been a heart attack.

Shit! It was the orgasm—and I can't even remember it. 

But what about someone coming for you—someone you've known, someone you've loved, or someone who's loved you? Surely there should be someone to guide you, show you what to do, where to go? Why wasn't there anyone for him? What had gone wrong? Ha! The so-called experts, that's what. Maybe no one came. Ever. So you live, you die, you're alone for the rest of eternity. He wanted to shiver, couldn't do that, but felt that somehow, somewhere, he could still feel a little sick, if he really tried. 

Then he realised: the truth could be that there was no one person on the other side who had ever really loved him. There was, he reasoned, if reluctantly, not one person willing to come out and get him, lead him to the next life. Yeah, that would explain it. He'd been an unloved child, and though his parents were still alive, it was apparent that none of his grandparents and aunts and uncles could be bothered to turn out for him. Unless it was all a load of rubbish: going towards the light, the loved ones collecting you, life after death. It was utter crap.

But it couldn't all be rubbish, could it?—because he was dead, and yet his conscious spirit was still, well, living. He would have sighed as he decided, with cutting-edge cynicism, on the good news: there is life after death. The bad news? You're alone, just as he was right now. Apart, that was, from the breathing! Someone right there, right then, was breathing.

Outside on the landing a floorboard creaked. He tried to freeze. Couldn't. A pause. Then the door scraped over the carpet. Suddenly a woman was already in the room, almost as if the picture had jumped. She'd be about 40—no, make that 30; judging by her clothes this must have been sometime in the '60s, when people looked older than they really were. Distressed, trembling, she was holding a pillow in both hands. Briscoe hadn't seen the bed's occupant; he'd been too preoccupied. And now the pillow was being pressed down on someone's face. At first there was no resistance. And as she pressed, making a hissing noise, screwing up her face in agony, there began a faint movement of a hand trapped beneath the blankets, almost as if the person were trying to make a signal. She kept mumbling how sorry she was, how much she loved this person, how she would never forget the good times …

This went on. The longer she pressed, the longer the hand moved. Then she stopped, hurriedly backed away. The hand was still moving, accompanied by an agonised, elongated, low-pitched screeching sound. Now Briscoe saw the face: a man's, skin like white tissue paper stretched over a forbidding landscape of bone. He seemed to be pleading with her. 

A girl, maybe 15, another image from the past, watched from the doorway. The woman turned to her, shocked that she'd been caught. Then her pitiful wail, yet nothing about it was vulgar; this was from the heart. She begged for forgiveness, for understanding. Briscoe didn't remember the last time he had cried, but, whatever was happening in this room, he so wanted to be free of his restriction, the unyielding coat that bound all his senses, making him want to scream, to burst out and join this woman, put his arm around her, tell her that everything was going to be okay, yes, that she was not alone. This was a stranger, and he was so helpless, so unknown, so insignificant, he wanted to give her love. And yet giving love to another person was such an alien concept for him, he realised. Such a wasted life he had led. So much time gone, opportunities ignored, with only a true appreciation for his beloved oak, the one thing which would never let you down. In that moment, for the first time, it crossed his mind that some aspect of him was missing—then the thought was gone.

The girl came in, looked at the discarded pillow, then at the flailing hand. And she went to the bed, knelt astride the man, putting her weight against the pillow. 

Another jump in time. The hand was now still. The woman cried. The girl hurried off the bed, as if it were hot coals, and in almost falling to the floor she dislodged the pillow. They turned away, hugged each other. Briscoe looked down to the face, its eyelids not quite closed, the mouth open, perfectly still. He needed to shudder, to call out, relieve the pressure, the unseen restraint on his soul. He felt fingernails digging into his shoulder.

Wake up! Come on, hey! Wake up!

Briscoe opened his eyes and peered through the hardened crud that abraded them like sandpaper dust. He was on his back, arms outstretched, the sheet cold and wet beneath him. A cool draught swept over his naked body. Then realization, followed by relief. The evening-class woman—was her name Wendy?—leaned over him. There was little light, but he could see enough of her unpleasant expression. 

So you're back, then. She sat up. If there was any concern in her voice it was only for herself. Was she wearing anything? For some reason he didn't feel comfortable moving his head to see.

He moistened his lips. I need a drink.

You can drink all you want when you get home.

As soon as he began to sit up, she quickly got off the bed. 

Don't come near me or I'll scream. 

It didn't sound like she was afraid; it was just a threat. He saw that she was wearing a silk négligée, and didn't seem bothered that it was open at the front. She gave a single pained laugh that made him think of skin being dragged over shards of glass. 

You can ogle me all you want but you'll not get off on it. 

She made a defiant show of tying the cord around her waist, then stared at him with bitterness. 

Nobody's ever done that to me before. I've never been so insulted. Shit—that's what you made me feel like. Shit! You shouldn't go out with women if you can't manage it. That's an old man's trick. They told me you were good, that you were special, you knew stuff. What I want to know is what the bloody hell's gone wrong. Why tonight? Why me?

He sat on the edge of the bed, feeling like a small boy who'd been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, without any clue as to how he'd disgraced himself. 

What have I done wrong?

You should've told me you had summat wrong with you. I thought you were dying. I bet you've had a fit—in fact I'm sure you have. I couldn't wake you up. And then when you screamed—ugh! There on my bed, loud enough to bring all t' bloody neighbours running to see what were up. I thought one on 'em might phone the police—couldn't do with them buggers round. She shivered. 

Screamed?

And you puked all over me pillow. Filthy bugger! First you couldn't get it up and then you messed all over me clean sheets.

He turned around, felt the froth, wished he'd just taken her word for it, didn't know where to wipe his fingers. So that's what he could feel sagging down his back.

You were on your front. Wouldn't let go of the headboard. Couldn't get your fingers off, like they were nailed on. I'd all on getting meself out from under— 

Headboard?

And you've wet the bed.

He turned to feel the sheets.

With sweat—it were proper pouring off you. Like a pig you were.

I'll clean it up.

You won't! You'll get out of my house and piss off home. Such as you shouldn't be out.

Staggering, he felt his way on to the landing, found the bathroom, pulled the light cord. A low-wattage bulb seemed to cast more shadows than the darkness, but he found the sink. Typically, there was no plug on the end of the chain. His feet felt uncomfortable on the sticky, carpeted floor. 

Back in the bedroom he gave the woman a quick glance. She stood in the corner by the window, arms folded, determined to put a safe distance between him and her. He began to get dressed. 

You need to get that sorted, whatever you've got up with you. She watched him struggle his feet into his trousers. He almost fell over. I'll have to change them sheets, now. Filthy bastard!

I'll help.

I'll manage! You're all the same. Just get out.

I need a lift back to my van.

Well don't look at me.

Look, can't we just—

What do you want—us to be friends? I don't make a habit of this, you know—bringing odd men back here. I'm not like that.

Uncomfortable, he stood by the door, glancing down at where it had been kicked in. He could see the two women in his dream, watching him fail miserably in what should be the simple act of fornication. 

You've not put your socks on. she said. Don't leave them behind. You'll not be coming back.

I didn't have any on.

Oh, you are so weird. What man goes round with no socks?

They wore out. Been meaning to get some.

When I next get paid.

In the gloom he found his way to the house door, accidentally kicking the cat litter tray. When he turned to Wendy he could see the bitchiness had gone, but not what it had been replaced with. 

Just one thing—nice house. Been here long?

Since me and Mom moved in with Granddad when I were ten. Why?

He faced the emptiness of the cold, wet evening, the sizzling street lamps, pavements stinking of urine, littered with discarded fag packets.  

You don't have to leave, she said, reaching out for his arm, but pausing. 

He nodded a kind of thanks to her, and set off walking.

2

Scotland

Earlier that day, 10.30 a.m.

CHRISSIE WAS NOT tall—barely five feet two—but attractive, with short, mousy hair, big eyes and pleasant features. That morning, looking through the four-paned sash window of the cottage that she shared with her husband and two young children, the crowd of news reporters had grown so much that it was now impossible for her to see across the street towards the village hotel. What streak of evil had caused these vultures to descend on her little village in the heart of the Scottish Highlands? She shivered, felt her throat tightening: a condition that had afflicted her throughout her thirty-four years, whenever the vibrations with the earth were out of sync. She returned to the sheet of paper on which she had written in large capitals:

I  S E E K  T O

F U R T H E R

P E A C E

H A R M O N Y

R E S O L U T I O N

I N  T H I S  A R E A

Next she crossed out all recurring letters, and rechecked twice. That left her with

K   F   P   C   M   Y   L

which, she had hoped, might spell something meaningful, and sometimes it did, but it seemed that all the vowels had been popular with this particular sigil. She'd asked at the shop for them to get her some shiny gold wrapping paper, and on a small square of this she drew a far-from-perfect circle, which she divided into four, then wrote the seven remaining letters inside its confines. Neatness wasn't important, and the design, if it could be called that, looked clumsy. But it didn't matter. She would fold it and place inside her bra for the rest of the day. There! It would be charged with her intent, and that evening, beneath the full moon, she would reveal her wish for the village and surrounding district to her friends, and the paper she had prepared would be burnt.

The foreboding she felt was indeed physical, and she knew that something drastic had to be done to resolve the issues that had so cruelly befallen her beloved countryside, and restore balance.

The others had wanted to meet inside, some of them even playing down the psychic disturbance, caused by the rips in the environmental fabric, that they could all feel. She had insisted; this was a far graver matter than even those in the group—the ones who, through experience, were charged with high responsibility—could comprehend. But Chrissie knew, and it was not because, as High Priestess, she felt obliged to over-egg any given situation. This sort of magick was not an idle plaything.

Barely anything got past her, she was intuitive, inquisitive, and she knew how people's minds worked. But for all that she sensed she was clever, there were odd instances, out-of-kilter occurrences, flashes of another world—or so it seemed—that would upset her sense of equilibrium and rock the foundations of her otherwise safe world, frightening her with a suggestion that the unknown would be waiting to take her by surprise. Her way of dealing with this was to go looking for the unknown and face it on her own terms. That was how she came to join her circle of friends, twelve of them, men and women, who now stood in a circle with her, close to two standing stones that towered into the darkness, on the gentle grassy slope behind Erin Moore's farmhouse. 

In the centre, on a natural stone altar: a bowl (wooden, of course) of salt, a stick of incense, a ceramic bowl of water, a rock (to represent the Goddess Mother Earth), a carved acorn of (naturally) oak to represent the God. Also, a metal chalice (handy for windy nights like this in case it blew over), an athame (ritual knife, this one with unintentional signs of rust), a small pentacle (five-pointed star in a circle). Finally, there were two candles, one red, one white, each burning within protective jam jars. Even so, they flickered incessantly.

One of the few men bashed a steady beat with a stick on an oversized tambourine. One of the young women rattled cymbals on alternate beats. Another attempted to play a simple flute, but hadn't been able to practice for fear of her cultural past time being found out. And then, holding hands to summon up nature's energy, the bitter wind pulling at their robes, Erin's words were snatched away as soon as they left her lips:

Let no one be present… 

She paused, as if waiting for unwelcome heads to appear from behind the trees, then went on, louder. Unless they come—with an open heart!

But she felt, on a night like this, no one in their right mind would venture out to spy on them (which had happened before), and it occurred to her that no one in their right mind would stand in a circle outside in the wind, when it seemed the elements were determined that everyone should be indoors. 

All of the women, whose ages ranged from eighteen to seventy-one (Erin was sixty-six) wore the ubiquitous quilted overcoats so popular with local residents, but that was where any similarity with ordinary people ended, for beneath them they wore long cotton robes in purples, greens, and crimsons. But not for long, Erin thought, ruefully, and, risking breaking the group's focus, she hissed to the woman standing next to her:

Chrissie, this is not a good night for such things. There's enough room for us all in the barn.

No, was the reply. It must be outside. You know that's the only way we can connect to the power.

I'm telling you now, I don't want to be taking my clothes off on a night like this.

That way might be warmer, I'll give you that, but you know as well as I do that it blocks the energy. We have to do it the right way, and that's my last word on it.

"Be it on your head, Chrissie, but you'll be freezing the baws off the men this night."

All such decisions were supposed to be shared between Chrissie, and Gavin the High Priest, who usually said very little, and certainly nothing that ever caused friction or conflict with the coven. Chrissie had her doubts about him, believing he was just glad to be there, a part of something different, daring, exciting, and one of only four men who knew how she looked naked. She smiled at the thought; how very Victorian. She wouldn't give a damn about concealing herself if the whole village—the very people she was trying to protect—weren't so shocked by the idea of bare flesh. Her own attitude was concerned with communicating with nature, whereas she suspected that Gavin wasn't so much interested in listening to the rustle of the leaves on the trees and looking at the full moon as looking at his coven witches. Maybe she was wrong and he was right, for after all it was all about the masculine and feminine powers of nature being symbols with which, through the imagination, they were able to make contact with the cosmic forces. She looked at him now: yes, he was waiting to strip off. As ever, she had his support, whatever his true motive. Now it was time for her to channel nature's energy; that was her responsibility.

Friends, let us connect with the universe.

And the universe seemed to be in agreement, for as soon as their coats were dropped to the ground, their robes were snatched with a viciousness akin to a great beast tearing flesh from its victims. The members could do nothing more than release their clothing, hastily stop it from being snatched away, and squash it in the damp grass beneath their feet. Their bodies shivered, their legs weakened.

Despite the storm that intimately frisked every one of them, the drum beat continued as, one by one, Chrissie and Gavin struggled to anoint each of the others, rubbing a specially-prepared oil on to their foreheads. Raising their arms towards the sky, to invoke the moon's energy, it felt as if they were offering themselves, and that they could be taken by the wind at any moment. 

Chrissie had never before experienced such ferocity. There was no time to lose, and she urged the others to hurry: they must quickly burn the paper containing her sigil, returning it to nature and thus activating the spell, drawing on the Goddess, asking her for life, light, love, liberty and laughter. 

As the paper burned within a bowl, she was afraid that the flame would be prematurely extinguished. But the members, standing in a circle, violently shivering, holding hands, watched as it burned for longer than it should, each one of them, apart from Chrissie, wishing it would hurry up so they could get back inside.